


good things come

by hellebored (orphan_account)



Series: if not, then there too [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M, Height Differences, Oral Sex, Pillow Talk, Porn with Feelings, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22286224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hellebored
Summary: Most of the time Tauriel hardly notices their differences in height, but occasionally it complicates things.
Relationships: Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)
Series: if not, then there too [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604203
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	good things come

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes a person really just wants fluffy domestic smut; what can I say?

Kíli is a sound sleeper.

Most nights Tauriel goes to bed with him until he falls asleep, and then, needing little rest herself, she passes the remainder of the night in other ways. The Guard-Captain of the gate, while skeptical at first about letting an elf take on shifts, has long since given in: Tauriel does not fall asleep on her watch or complain about the lateness of the hour, content as she is to stand in the chill night and find peace in the stars. On feastday mornings, before dawn reaches the mountain, she helps the tired, irritable bakers prepare piles of sweet rolls. In the early morning hours she aids the healers too, changing bandages and checking sutures for infection. And, when no one needs her help at all, she wanders out into the fields and walks in the dark, keen eyes still drawn, sometimes, toward a home she lost a few short years ago.

Still— she makes an effort to return to the rooms she shares with Kíli before he wakes, slipping back into bed with a book.

She loves to watch him wake.

Even after his eyes have opened, it takes a while for the weight of sleep to lift from his eyelids. It’s still strange to Tauriel how far his spirit wanders in a mortal rest, and how little control he has over the twisting paths it takes or how long it takes for him to return.

There is something else she loves, and that is how her hands manage to wake him up completely with very little effort.

She leans her forehead against his and watches a flush build across his cheeks. Soft, half-formed words pour out of him and fill the short gap between their mouths, in turn soothing and scorching, a wave she allows herself to be carried on while he rolls sharply into her palm. She feels him reaching down, feels the calloused slide of a finger between her folds and the abrupt, near-painful pleasure that comes with it; he stretches his arm further, shoulder canted awkwardly down between them, until the tip of a finger finds her entrance.

Reflexively she arches her lower back in a C-shape, drawing up a knee and curling it over his back to bring her hips higher. It's enough to let him curl the first joint of his middle finger. She gasps, eyelids stuttering shut.

"I need you,” she says. Distantly she feels his other hand kneading a little roughly at the base of her skull, the arm reaching between their legs tense and straining.

She wants him to fill her: she must have said that out loud, because his body starts to move downward, but her fingers twist into his hair, tight and desperate. “Stay. I want to watch you."

A mulishly stubborn look crosses his face; she starts to grin, delighted by his warm, indignant dark eyes; by the flush in his cheeks and the sweat where their foreheads press together. Oh, how serious he gets when he's not being playful. How good it feels to drive him from one extreme to the other; to feel his rich low laughter turn wordlessly into moans that soak into her body like a tree in the sun.

"I wish I were taller,” he says frustratedly, still reaching, and the remorse in his tone splashes down her like ice.

Still breathing hard, she cradles his jaw and stops him from dipping his head away. There's something fragile in his expression. He's embarrassed, she thinks; embarrassed for saying something that's obviously taken all the tension out of both their bodies. If that were all of it, she would kiss his nose and teasingly insult his pride until he could laugh off the self-consciousness: but it isn't all of it, and she can't make light of what's underneath.

Her fingers follow the course of his strong, bristled forearm, and gently tugs his unresisting hand up until his shoulders are level. His hand still rests between her legs: even now, when all that's left of the heat between their bodies is cooling sweat, a small wash of warmth sparks under the contrite, hesitant-soothing movements of his thumb.

"If you wish to be taller for my sake then you're a fool, my love,” she says gravely, watching the emotions playing out in his expressive brown eyes. “Why would I want you to change when you fit me just as you are?"

Kíli lets out a heavy breath, and when he curls his head against her cheek and hides his face by pressing it into her shoulder, she lets him, stroking his shoulder.

His arm shifts. The aimlesss pressure of his thumb turns into soft circling that coils up her spine. She rolls against his hand, a throbbing ache pooling deep in her belly.

"Just like this,” she murmurs, turning her face until their noses touch. The hard length of him presses against her ribs; at the stroke of her hand he gives a high strangled sound and pants against her mouth.

 _You are perfect,_ she tells his heavy-lidded eyes: he comes apart at the words, goes soft and heavy in her arms.

She toys with his hair while his breathing evens out, cards out the half-tangled braids and redoes them with one hand, swift and neat.

He watches her face while she works. A teasing quirk grows across his mouth. “They're just going to get messed up again,” he points out reasonably, “when I do _this._ "

Suddenly he shimmies down her body, fast enough she gives out a startled laugh. “Kíli,” she begins fondly, when he nudges her onto her back; he looks up at her through a fringe of hair and grins, a wide expectant smile, mischievous and unhurried.

She isn't sure what else to say, what else needs saying, so she runs her hand through his hair instead. He's right; the braids won't survive this, and it would be much kinder to undo them now before they become something to pull on. It's a nice thought that gets utterly abandoned when his fingers slip inside of her.

He pulls back, and when he slowly enters her again it feels like drawing in a breath she hadn't known she was holding, the widening push of his broad fingers heady as sweet air. It aches. It _aches_ , and he nuzzles his mouth against her, and his tongue licks in long strokes while he rocks his curling fingers—

There is such wild sweetness in him, a storm that strips the treetops and scrubs the night clean into a crisp ceiling of stars.

She comes down to the hazy feeling of kisses, damp and whiskered, pressed around her bellybutton. Warm hands slide up her waist and the rest of him follows; he tucks the crown of his head under her chin and breathes out long and content.

She strokes his hopeless brambled braids and listens to the low hum in his chest.

"You would take up too much of the bed if you were any taller,” she announces, and he pulls back far enough to skewer her with a skeptical look beneath brows she's fairly certain he can't raise any higher, his wavering mouth already cracking at the edges into good-humored amusement.

"You don't have to make up reasons for the sake of my self-esteem, you know."

" _Making up_ sounds perilously close to lying, and elves do not lie. I have never lied in my entire life."

"It's alright if you believe that,” he says solemnly, eyes sparkling; “you elves live too long. It muddles your minds. It's not your fault you're too senile to remember the fork incident. After all, it was an entire fortnight ago."

She swats his shoulder. “That was no lie. I merely _borrowed_ it, on _accident_ , and found it diplomatic not to alienate visiting nobility, and if that means omitting some details about mistaking their cutlery for my own right before they happened to use it—"

"Thorin saw the whole thing and nearly choked to death laughing, did I tell you that? He actually turned red. I don't think he's ever liked you more."

"Thorin is an ass,” she says, oddly pleased, “who likes me best when I'm making a fool of myself."

Kíli chuckles, and murmurs something against her skin she doesn't quite catch, if it was meant to have words at all; and for a moment Tauriel focuses on the feeling of a warm foot slung over one of her knees, a hand high on her waist, his beard tickling her collarbone. He is short, and filling into the stockiness of his prime, and amusingly close to having a head's worth of hair on various places that aren't his head: he is also perfectly sized to curl around in a way she never would have known she'd want to shelter someone else. It feels right to hold him, to keep him safe. Right for him to be as he is.

In the broad corridor outside their rooms Tauriel hears muffled echoes of laughter that might be Fíli's, undoubtedly on his way to the feast-hall to be warmed with hot food and morning chatter. Fíli will notice when she comes down late; he always does, though he never says anything beyond an amused smile that’s never quite hidden by his mustache.

After breakfast everyone will disperse to their daily pursuits: the cheerful creation of beautiful things made with strong hands capable of both brute force and fine detail; the teaching of children and running of shops; lamp-lighting and baking and forge-tending. Statecraft, as Kíli and Fíli will do, and hunting and patrolling, as she does.

Such bright, eager lives packed into such a small span of years. She lets out a soft laugh: sometimes things that are shorter are much, much better.


End file.
